Shadows for Silence in the Forests of Hell

by Brandon Sanderson

“You used to sing to me at night,” Sebruki said softly, closing her eyes, lying back. “When you first brought me here. After . . . After . . .” She swallowed. “I wasn’t certain you noticed.” Silence hadn’t been certain Sebruki noticed anything, during those times.

Don’t kindle flame, don’t shed the blood of another, don’t run at night. These things draw shades. The Simple Rules, by which every homesteader lived. She’d broken all three on more than one occasion. It was a wonder she hadn’t been withered away into a shade by now.

Yes, the light of the paste also known as Abraham’s Fire did make drops of wetleek sap glow. By coincidence, wetleek sap also caused a horse’s bladder to loosen.

William Ann clung to her lantern pole. The child had been out in the night before, of course. No homesteader looked forward to doing so, but none shied away from it either. You couldn’t spend your life trapped inside, frozen by fear of the darkness. Live like that, and . . . well, you were no better off than the people in the forts. Life in the Forests was hard, often deadly. But it was also free.

Oh, shadows, Silence thought. She thinks we’re being punished. Fool girl. Foolish as her father.

“How long have you known?” “I’m an idiot, mam,” he said. “Not a fool.” He bowed his head to her, then walked away, slump-backed as always.

These are the Forests. Everybody here has done something, now and then, that you don’t want others to know about. . . .”